Silver Ghost
by Bishop.AG
Summary: Leon Kennedy reminisces over the time since Raccoon City and considers his current way of life. He decides to have a new gun built, as a way of moving on from his troubled past, and a step in preparation of his job in Europe. Pre-Resident Evil 4.


**Author Note:** I do not claim the original concept as my own. This is my own take on a story presented about the backstory of Resident Evil 4. I found it on the website Project Umbrella, translated excerpts from the airsoft magazine "ARMS," Jan 06 Vol 211, pages 32 to 33. If you want a link to this, just ask in a PM or review. As the Resident Evil canon can be confusing, I tried to keep with what was presented in Darkside Chronicles as well as the traditional plots.

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**Based on:**_ The Birth of Leon's Handgun (ARMS magazine vol 211, Pg 32-33)_

I'm not the only guy with an appreciation for a well-made gun. At times, my best friend is a nine-milimeter with the reassuring weight of a full magazine. If I go out to eat and forget my H&K, I drive back and get it. Without a gun, I feel naked, vulnerable.

Paranoid?

Some might think so. I have and probably always will disagree. I've been proven right too often to think otherwise.

Like the summer of 1998. Most remember the news of Umbrella's public disgrace, and to a lesser extent, a quiet town called Raccoon City disappearing from the face of midwestern America.

September 28th, just a few days before the city was laid flat with a missile strike, I was on the outskirts of Raccoon City proper, passed out drunk after spending my first official day as a Raccoon Police Officer partying. In hindsight, that irresponsibility probably saved my ass down the road.

Even if I was irresponsible then, being a cop was one thing I was passionate about. Ever since some family friends in the city had told me about the grisly murders that would happen ever so often in the Arklay Mountains, I had poured hours of time into researching everything about the area. When those same friends moved out, I felt like I knew more than they did about the history of Raccoon. That made the interview with Chief Irons a breeze, as eccentric the guy was.

Given that housing in Raccoon was at a premium, I lived an hour out from the city. Running late, I was driving my Jeep so hard I nearly ran down a flock of crows and some roadkill.

If you find a cop who has had to fire a gun in self defense, most of them can't tell you how many bullets they fired or how long it took, but they will remember the details of the people they shot, the clothes they were wearing. In my case, that 'roadkill' was the first T-virus zombie I ever ran into. It was a brunette, early twenties, late teens maybe. It certainly wasn't a homeless person, a well-to-do lady with designer jeans, comfortable leather heels and a cleanly-pressed cream-colored button down.

When I found her, she had a hole the size of a dinnerplate in her back. The crows had been feeding on her for an hour or more. The stench was overpowering, worse than the sewer she had died next to. As I was trying to determine cause of death and call my fellow officers for backup, three more infected citizens showed up. The recently-deceased woman grabbed my boot, and I turned my gun on her.

She had a pretty face. Well-defined bones and eyebrows, dimples, and baby-blue eyes. But her mouth oozed blood and those eyes were almost white, entirely glazed over. I certainly never thought of her as a person when I pulled the trigger. I put half a mag into a middle-aged guy in suspenders without much of an effect. We were so close, I could see his shirt billowing out from the hits of each individual bullet. As I retreated into a nearby bar, cut off from my car, I ran into another survivor and had to shoot a second infected citizen. This time it was a single bullet to the head.

It was then that I realized that in some situations, the length of a person's life was determined by the number of bullets in their gun. Did I only survive because of the gun I carried? I doubt it. The survivor I met, Claire Redfield was one of the hardiest women I've ever met, and I'd probably be dead if not for her help, as well as Sherry Birkin, the young girl we rescued. It's probably why we're doing dinner next week.

But that's a story for another day.

As soon as we escaped the city and reached the US military units guarding the perimeter, even before quarantine, we were sat down with a man in a suit and sunglasses. He told us in no uncertain terms that Sherry was of critical interest to the US government, and the world's safety at large. You see, Sherry was the daughter of a pair of researchers that were in large, responsible for the entire incident. She was also one of the few human beings to be given a G-virus vaccine. They needed her, and we didn't like that one bit. But before I could reach over the table to choke the bastard, he gave me an offer I found hard to refuse.

"Officer Kennedy, I'm giving you an opportunity which nobody else will grant you, I can guarantee," he started, brushing off his lapels as I sat back down. "The president is creating a special unit to prevent tragedies like that which just befell Raccoon. Your experience as a law enforcement officer combating these 'Bio-Organic Weapons' is going to be crucial to achieve that goal."

In truth, the idea was growing on me even before the guy had given his side of the offer. "Pilot the program, and I can guarantee no harm will come to Sherry Birkin. She'll be given foster parents and will have the same rights as any other survivor."

It's 2004 now, and most of us have moved on. Claire's brother Chris, and other survivors of Raccoon - Barry Burton, Rebecca Chambers, Jill Valentine, some of them found ways to quietly disappear, but most fought the legacy of Umbrella in their own ways. I didn't have much of a choice in comparison, but I've always been glad that I've been in a position to make a difference. Whether that meant investigating South American B.O.W. operations in a two-man cell, or inspecting the site of Oswell Spencer's murder, I've always believed in my work.

Some people can go their entire lives without ever having to kill another. I'm not that sort of person. And that's why I need a gun. I'm not one to go down without a fight.

I assume that's why I've been assigned to Europe. My role in the US Secret Service is... unique. My business card says, 'Biohazard Threat Assessment Specialist,' but it should probably say, 'Government Sanctioned Zombie Killer.' I get deployed when a B.O.W. needs killing. When I was given the responsibility to protect the President's family, it wasn't from everything - just from what everyone else lacked the experience to handle.

So my deployment to Europe came as a bit of a surprise. They had people far more experienced in intelligence work, and enough resources to not need to send one man. But something made President Graham intuitively call for me specifically to be flown over for a long-term recovery op. My spidey senses were tingling, and I expected the worst. On a long list of preparations leading up to my actual deployment, one big goal was a new gun.


End file.
